Morrison's gaze was set straight ahead, but a twist of his face indicated that he said something through the corner of his mouth.
The general made his plunge.
"Captain Sweetsir, instruct your men to empty their magazines, assemble accoutrements, and stand at ease in marching order."
The captain came onto his tiptoes in order to elongate himself as a human interrogation-point.
"Captain Sweetsir, order your bugler to sound retreat!"
The officer forced an amazed croak out of his throat by way of a command, and on the hush within the rotunda the clarion of the bugle rang out. It echoed in the high arches. Its sharp notes cut into the clamor outdoors.
Morrison recognized a voice that was keyed to a pitch almost as high as the bugle's strains. "Hold your yawp! Don't you hear that?" Lanigan screamed. "Don't you know the difference between that and a fish-peddler's horn? That's the tune we fellers heard the Huns play just before Armistice Day. That's retreat! Come on, Legion!" he urged, frantically. "Ram back those sledge-hammers!"
Morrison grinned and released the general's arm.
"You hear that, do you, sir? When you can convince fair men that you're on the right slant, the fair men will proceed to show rough-necks where they get off if they go to trying on the wrong thing!"
"There's going to be the devil to pay!" insisted the adjutant-general. "You're going to let that mob into the State House, and they'll fight all over the place."